


Famous Boyfriends

by publius_ham



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gay, M/M, Multi, super gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7347886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publius_ham/pseuds/publius_ham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re going to pretend-date Harry Potter,” Blaise said slowly, “to be done with hate mail?”<br/>"Pretty much. Brilliant, is it not?”<br/>He snorted. “About as brilliant as setting your pants on fire while dancing around in gasoline."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretty Boy

Chapter 1 

Pretty Boy

 

 

**Draco**

 

 

“Potter.”

“Saint Potter.”

“Nice scar, Potter.”

“Been training for a _Daily Prophet_ ’s membership card, Potter?”

Pansy snorted. “Now that last one’s just pathetic.”

Draco turned around, his hands in his hair. He knew he was pathetic – Merlin, probably everyone in the train knew how pathetic he was rehearsing what to _say_ to the him. (He knew he was just going to be hexed by the Gryffindor anyway.) “It’s not.”

“It is, and you know it.” She looked up from her book – why did she read so much? – and beckoned him to sit next to her. “How about, ‘ _Nice face, Potter’_?”

Draco sighed, putting his head in his best friend’s lap and closing his eyes. She immediately dropped her book on the floor to start rubbing his head in soothing circles, as she always would whenever he was stressed. “He’ll just take that as an insult.”

“Darling, he takes _everything_ that comes out of your mouth an insult.”

“Which sucks.”

“Amen.”

A loud cough made Draco open his eyes, and he cocked an eyebrow when he saw Blaise shaking his head at them. “What?”

“Nothing. Just one tiny, teensy thing. It’s nothing, really.” If Blaise’s voice wasn’t sarcastic, Draco wasn’t blond. (And merlin knew he was.) “Why are we trying to get Potter to like us again?”

“He needs to like _me_ , Blaise, there’s a difference.”

Blaise rolled his eyes, obviously trying to refrain himself from slapping the other Slytherin. “Just answer the question, you ponce.”

“You’re a pain in the behind,” Draco said lightly, closing his eyes again, “and ridiculously slow. I’ve explained this. Hundreds of times.”

“No, you’ve only vaguely hinted to us why you need him to like you – and ordered us to participate or ‘you idiots aren’t going to be invited to my _Welcome To Our Eight Year At Hogwarts – Let’s Get Drunk And Be Idiots_ party’. I don’t call that telling us what you’re up to.”

Draco scowled. “That’s _not_ the name of –“

“Pansy, you tell him.”

She giggled. “Tell him what? That he needs to find a better name for his idiot party?”

“Again, that’s _not_ the name I’ve given to –“

“Pansy. C’mon.”

She sighed, and stopped rubbing Draco’s hair. “Fine. Draco, Blaise is your best friend. He deserves to know why you need to woo the enemy.”

“I won’t call it ‘ _woo the enemy_ ’, that’s just dramatic.” Draco sat up, straightened his hair, and looked at the door to be certain nobody was suddenly coming in. (Invisible or not.) “Look, you guys know my mother is very okay with me being gay –“

His friends were nodding, they’d been there when he’d told her four years ago.

“- and I don’t give a _shit_ about my father’s bigoted opinion anyway –“

“Hear, hear!” Blaise called, and Draco gave him a little smile.

“So, anyway... They wouldn’t really care who I came home with. It’s just.. the wizarding world doesn’t particularly like me.”

That was the understatement of the century, and they all knew it. All the Prophet had talked about – if not gossiping about the Saviour’s whereabouts or his war hero friends – was how the Malfoy name and its legacy were going down the drain, including its money and prestige. The manor had been burned to the ground, his mother had to move to France to avoid being crowded by people who thought she ‘ _should learn a lesson or two_ ’ in choosing the wrong side during the war, and Draco had had to go from one friend’s place to another to not be followed home by news reporters.

They had called him a maniac, a loyal Death Eater – and worst of all, the true murderer of Albus Dumbledore. (Maybe not directly, one article had written, but it was _after all_ the Slytherin boy’s fault the Death Eaters had been at school in the first place.)

The last thing they needed was information about his sexual preference.

The only problem was... He wanted to be able to _date_ people without being clogged down by a crowd. He didn’t want the boy – whoever he was dating – to be murdered or ‘ _rescued_ ’ by fanatics whenever they made out that wasn’t in a house protected by the Fidilius Charm.

So coming out with someone as a gay couple needed thorough preparation. A plan. Something to save himself from all the reporters and death threats at the same time.

And who better to use as an example of how he’d changed than the Golden Boy?

Nobody would _dare_ hurt Draco if they thought they were dating, scared they’d upset their pretty little saviour.

They wouldn’t _dare_ ridicule their relationship.

All he needed to do was convince Potter to help him.

Should be easy enough.

And explaining everything to his best friend was the first step.

“So,” he said after a while, “I kind of need Potter to be my boyfriend to prove a point to the wizarding community.”

Blaise just blinked for a moment before answering. “What point?”

“Duh?” Draco gestured to himself. “That I’m loveable? That it’s not disgusting, nor a shame, to be gay – and to stop people from sending me hate mail?”

“You’re going to pretend-date _Harry Potter_ ,” Blaise said slowly, “to be done with _hate mail_?”

“Pretty much. Brilliant, is it not?”

He snorted. “About as brilliant as setting your pants on fire while dancing around in gasoline. You _might_ face some difficulties along the way. What if he’s not gay – isn’t he dating that red-headed Weasley?”

Draco waved his hand. “One: they’re all red-heads, and I doubt he’s dated them all. Two: they broke up over the summer. It was all over the news.”

“Sure it was, darling,” Pansy said, patting his leg. “Blaise still has a point. He’s straight.”

“I’m not straight,” Blaise countered, affronted.

“I was talking about _Harry_ , you idiot.”

 “Anyway,” Draco quickly intervened before one of their fights would start up again, “It doesn’t matter if you’re right. Yes, I don’t know if he’s gay or not. But I have a plan for that. If he isn’t, I’m going to make him. If he’s not sure, I’ll say it’s an experiment. If he is, great!”

“You, Draco,” Blaise said with a smirk on his face, “are a selfish bastard.”

“I know, and you love me for it.”

Blaise slumped in his seat, and groaned theatrically. “God help me I do.”

 

**Harry**

“Can you please stop talking, Harry? It’s turning _me_ mental, which is saying something.”

Hermione might have a good point.

They were sitting in a closed compartment somewhere on the back of the train – the door was magically locked to keep prying eyes and curious ears out – and mentally preparing for the confrontation of a ruined Hogwarts.

Ron was reading the Prophet with a scowl on his face, Ginny was covering her ears dramatically and Hermione was glaring at Harry for not shutting up for the thousandth time that summer.

“I’m sorry,” Harry countered, not feeling very sorry at all. “I can’t help it that I’m bloody nervous about going back to school –“

“And bloody flustered about thinking about my brother’s behind?" Ginny asked, her face about as red as her hair – though that was due to sheer frustration, not embarrassment. “You’ve said that a million times this day already, Harry, we know by now. Charlie is hot. Bill is hot. We _know_.”

Ron groaned, and lowered the paper. “If one more person calls my brothers ‘ _hot_ ’, I’m going to Obliviate myself and sleep for a year.”

“Well,” Hermione said gingerly, “Maybe now’s the time to tell you that I’ve also always thought –“

Ron held up his hands quickly. “Shut up, please.”

Harry, meanwhile, was doing his best not to blush.

He hadn’t seen his friends – and their families – throughout the summer. He’d purposely avoided the entire wizarding world altogether, afraid his PTSD – at least, that’s what the special magazines Hermione gave him were calling it – would give reason for people to believe he was turning mental. He’d rather have them speculating where he’d gone off too – rather that they all thought he’d found a girl and was embarrassed to show her to the public.

But when he finally, the last week of summer, decided to go back to Hogwarts anyway and visited his friends at the Burrow, he’d received quite the shock.

Because rather than drooling at the sight of Ginny in her new bright-blue summer dress (though no offense to the dress, nor Ginny) he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bill and Charlie cutting wood in the garden. Without their shirts on. Flexing their muscles.

He’d just stood there, staring, with a punch-in-the-stomach sudden realization that – oh. Boys were _hot_.

He could’ve denied the whole thing if it hadn’t been for Ginny, who had seen everything. Instead of taking him aside and explaining all the wonders of sexual preferences, she had doubled over and laughed. ( _And laughed, and laughed, and laughed_. She hadn’t stopped, not for hours, which was how his other best friends found them in the garden; Harry blushing from head to toe and Ginny crying with laughter and the oldest two Weasleys staring at them as if they’d gone bonkers.)

Now, however, she found it annoying rather than amusing.

Harry still wasn’t sure which emotion he preferred.

Just when he opened his mouth to say something – change the subject, talk about the weather or just basically _anything_ that wasn’t his sexual preference – when the door of their compartment suddenly slid open.

“Potter,” came the drawling voice he hadn’t heard in months, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you came back.”

Something in Harry’s chest flared up, and his head snapped to the door’s opening. Draco Malfoy was leaning against its frame, grinning from ear to ear, his two ‘minions’ looming up behind him. Malfoy had grown a few inches over the summer, his hair wasn’t slicked back anymore and his face looked even paler than usual, but he was _smiling_ , something which couldn’t be said about Harry at the moment.

He hadn’t particularly missed the git, after all.

“Malfoy,” he sighed, trying to keep his tone even. Seeing Malfoy was never good for his nerves. “What do you want?”

“Why do you always assume I _want_ something?” Malfoy asked, quirking a perfect eyebrow.

“Well,” Harry was pointedly ignoring Ron’s fuming, (the redhead was almost blowing steam out of his ears), “can you blame me?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I suppose not.”

“Then get out!” Ron suggested suddenly, unable to keep silent. “Nobody _wants_ you here.”

“Ronald!” Hermione immediately snapped, and she nudged her boyfriend. “Be nice.”

“ _Be_ – what?” Ron looked at her if she had just confessed she was rather attracted to Salazar Slytherin, his eyes fully wide like a fish. “Are you actually serious?”

Someone behind Malfoy huffed, and Harry saw Pansy crossing her arms indignantly. “I’d listen to your girlfriend if I were you, Weasley, she is after all the brightest witch of our age, is she not?”

Harry stilled.

As did his friends.

Did _Pansy Parkinson_ just pay _Hermione_ a compliment?

Malfoy rolled his eyes at their theatrics, and said in a bored voice – “c’mon, Pansy, Blaise, it’s obvious that our presence here isn’t appreciated.” Just before he closed the compartment door, however, he turned to Harry once more and added in a casual tone, “Oh, Potter?”

Harry blinked, looking up. (And up, and _up_.) “Yeah?”

Malfoy grinned, his teeth flashing. “You look pretty today.”

And with that shocking statement, the door slammed close, its window rattling by the impact.

 

**Draco**

Phase 1 of ‘wooing the enemy’ had officially begun.  

 

**Harry**

Draco Malfoy had always been slightly predictable.

At least, Harry flattered himself by thinking that he knew what the other boy would and would not do in certain situations.

He knew how he could rile up the blonde boy with just a few words or gestures, how to make sure the conversation would end in a muggle fist fight.

He knew what Malfoy’s mood was by the way he held himself – _nervous_ , and he’d be fidgeting constantly and tapping his wand on his thigh, _mad_ , and he’d snap at even his friend, _happy_ , well… Harry had yet to see Malfoy very happy.

Merlin, he even knew how the Slytherin liked his breakfast. (Baked eggs with tons of salt but no pepper, brown toast without butter, and a black coffee on school days.) Harry would even be able to tell on what days Malfoy hadn’t slept well, and if the letters he’d received by owl post had been good or bad news.

But his statement, ‘ _you look pretty today_ ’ had startled Harry so much that he had trouble breathing for a few seconds. (Or minutes. He’d lost track of time.)

“He’s up to something,” he finally croaked, searching the compartment frantically for someone to agree with him, or make sense of this situation. “I know he is!”

Ginny cleared her throat. “Up to what, then?”

“Harry’s right!” Ron said, but he didn’t sound too sure. “That was fu-“

“ _Language_ , Ron!”

“- _super_ weird!” He finished, rolling his eyes at his girlfriend. “Merlin, Hermione, even you’ve got to admit that wasn’t like Malfoy at all.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I can _begrudgingly_ admit that it was a bit… out of character.”

“Understatement of the century,” Ginny whispered, and Harry chuckled lamely, his eyes still focused on the door.

“ _But_ ,” Hermione continued quickly, glaring at them as if she were a teacher and they’d just interrupted her class, “if this is his new way of teasing you, Harry, I’d embrace it if I were you. It’s better than him insulting your hair, isn’t it?”

“That would make way more sense!” Ron complained. “Have you _seen_ Harry’s hair today? It’s even worse than normal!”

Harry grinned. “Ta, mate.”

He rolled his eyes, trashing his arms around. “Wasn’t meant to be a compliment! Draco should be cursing your rat’s nest you call hair, he should sneer and drawl about your scar, he should make a rude comment about your parents – not call you pretty!”

“Maybe,” Ginny said softly, “everyone became gayer over the summer.”

Ron groaned, and he threw his head back in his seat with a theatrical and loud _bang_. “Everyone except me, yeah.” As if someone had just called a _Lumos_ in his mind he snapped his head to the side, gaping at his girlfriend. “Wait a sec, _you_ ’re not suddenly gay, are you? I mean – it’s not your fault if you are, but I would be like, super bummed?” When Hermione just stared at him, he quickly added; “I mean, merlin, Hermione, _please_ don’t be gay? Pretty please? I’ll even do my homework this year if that makes you more, like, hetero!”

Everyone started laughing then – except Hermione, who shook her head at him with a small smile – but Harry’s laugh felt a bit hollow.

His gaze kept returning to the compartment door, Draco’s voice still echoing in his mind, making it hard to concentrate on Hermione’s gentle reply. (And Ron’s big smile.)

_‘you look pretty today’_

Harry shuddered.

It certainly was the weirdest way to be bullied he’d ever experienced.

(And that was saying _a lot_.)


	2. Flirty Invitation

Chapter two

A Flirty Invitation

 

**Harry**

“Okay,” Harry muttered to himself when he saw the huge pink poster hanging in their common room after their first night back. “Okay,” he said again when he noticed that every single Gryffindor who wasn’t still asleep had gathered around it, talking loudly as if they were on the verge of panic. “Okay, okay, okay – _move_!”

Three first-years immediately scattered when they heard his – quite grumpy – command, and then he could finally see what had been the cause of all the commotion.

The pink poster wasn’t just big or flamboyantly _there,_ it was sparkling as well, as if someone had just spilled an entire bottle of silver glitter over it. The golden letters were pulsing, almost in tune with Harry’s heartbeat.

_“Lions,”_ Harry read slowly from the poster, everyone around him quiet in a very un-Gryffindor-like way, “ _welcome back to another atrocious year at our dear Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry! As you might have noticed, the school isn’t yet back to its former glory,”_ – someone snorted loudly – _“but we have just the right solution for sweet oblivion from the wreckage. How about we forget about past issues of sexism, racism, and other horrible things, and celebrate the miracle that is our freedom? Next Friday, the generous S-Slytherins,”_ Harry’s voice faltered slightly, and he hoped to Merlin that no one would notice it over the laughter that had broken out, “ _will open their doors to any person wanting to share a bit of inter-house lovin’.”_

Someone behind Harry cleared their throat. “Excuse me,” Ginny said slowly, “it really says ‘interhouse lovin’?”

Harry just pointed. (Up until now, he’d been slightly convinced it was Malfoy who’d written the poster, or at least another posh Slytherin – fine, yes, that could be anyone – but now? No Slytherin he knew would ever, consciously, use a phrase that contained the word ‘lovin’.’) “ _Underage drinking is not allowed, and wands are forbidden. (In case some of us can’t get past their prejudices against reptiles like us.) We would say that we wouldn’t hurt you to convince you to come – but you’re reckless Gryffindors after all, and you wouldn’t want to miss out on seeing the Slytherin dungeons, would you? Yours sincerely – but not really – the Slytherin Head Boy and Girl.”_

“Malfoy.” Harry said after the quiet that had followed, and he balled his fist. “I _told you_ he was up to something.”

“You always say he’s up to something,” Ginny giggled, and rolled her eyes when Harry’s head snapped back to glare at her.

“Well, yeah,” Harry grumbled. “It’s the same as saying he’s breathing; it’s a given.”

She rolled her eyes – again – and pushed him gently. “You’re missing the point. They want to give a party, and they’ve invited the entire school.”

“And it’s in the Slytherin dungeon,” Neville suddenly said, and both he and Ginny jumped in surprise. “Have they no idea how much people hate Slytherins nowadays?” When Ginny just stared at him blankly, he blushed. “I mean – more than usual? I would’ve imagined they would keep their heads low and everything – not throw a…”

“Flamboyantly pink party?” Offered Ginny helpfully.

If possible, Neville blushed even more. “Yeah. That.”

Some second year girl sighed deeply. “It’s final. We’re dead.”

“Now, Mary,” a girl next to her said, patting her friend on her shoulder pitifully, “don’t be so melodramatic. They’re just…” but apparently she couldn’t find the right word for the Slytherins, so she shrugged instead.

Her friend didn’t seem to find this very comforting, and she groaned in her hands.

(And Harry would’ve copied her stance, if he had a more dramatic flair.)

 

**Draco**

 

“Gentlemen,” Draco said, sitting down with as much grace as he could master for a guy who just had his bullocks hexed into a mass of bruises – thanks to one of the brave Gryffindors – “what have I missed?”

“Gentle _men_?” Pansy repeated, quirking her perfectly-magically-manicured eyebrow at him. “That’s sexist, Draco.”

“My apologies. Gentlemen, and gentle _woman_.”

Theodore Nott snorted from across the table. “Pansy is anything but gentle.”

Pansy stared at him for a few seconds – Draco contemplated whether or not he was willing to risk his hair to save his friend from getting _his_ bullocks hexed purple and blue. Luckily for Theodore, though – and Draco – Pansy just shrugged after a while. “Fair enough.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Blaise shrugged, and he passed Draco his usual morning coffee. (Black, just on the touch of burning hot.) “Nothing much has happened.”

“That,” Pansy said, pointing her toast at him accusingly, “is a lie.”

“I never lie.”

Draco almost snorted coffee right up his nose. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been friends with _him_ for six years.”

“Hey!” Theodore spluttered, but everyone else ignored him.

“Pansy,” Draco said, turning to his best female friend. “ _Darling_. Honey.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Really?”

“Yes.” He even batted his eyelashes at her, something that had never failed him in the past to get what he wanted “What has happened?”

She grinned – a grin that looked frightening to everyone who wasn’t a friend – and pointed at the other side of the room.

Immediately Draco’s gaze snapped to the Gryffindor table, and thus, _Potter_.

Even though the boy was sitting behind two other tables of people, people who were talking and moving and just generally being loud, Draco could spot him easily. (After all, Draco mused, he did have six years practice of looking at him.)

Potter was smashing up his usual morning eggs with more force than necessary – something which was not unusual for him, Potter simply stood above simple things like table manners – and he was chucking down his Pumpkin Juice as if it were a shot. His friends, Granger and the Weasel, weren’t talking to him, which meant that Potter was in one of his moods again. (Potter’s friends always stayed at least three inches away from him at all times whenever he was temperamental again, and Draco couldn’t blame them. One time he’d even seen Potter produce red sparks when he growled at someone.)

It was obvious he was upset about something, but it wasn’t clear to Draco what. (He wasn’t eyeing the paper, so the Daily Prophet’s articles weren’t to blame this morning. He wasn’t muttering angrily to his friends, so it wasn’t something that had to do with his usual secret adventures.)

“Draco,” Pansy whispered at last, and she nudged him from under the table. “You’re drooling.”

Draco’s head immediately snapped back to her, and he snarled. “Am not. I wasn’t even looking –“

“Yeah, you were,” Blaise said in a bored tone. “I could basically hear your brain turning – ‘ _Potter is eating eggs again, this must mean he’s had detention again.‘”_

“Two things,” Draco interrupted quickly, trying to keep his temper. “One, that was a horrid impersonation, Blaise, it’s slightly disappointing. I thought you were better than that.” His friend just raised an eyebrow. “Two, I wasn’t thinking that.” (And Potter didn’t like eggs all that much, Draco knew, the only times he would eat an egg was if Granger shoved it under his nose and Potter was elsewhere with his thoughts to pay too much a mind to what he was eating.) (Knowing this didn’t mean he was as obsessive with the Chosen One as his friends thought he was, mind. It was just public knowledge.)

“Oh, no?” Pansy chuckled. “You _were_ staring at Potter, darling.”

Draco put his hands in the air, and huffed frustratingly. “Yes! Because _you_ pointed at him, Pansy!”

“I didn’t.”

“You _did_.”

“No,” her chuckle sounded dangerously close to a giggle – something a true Slytherin never, ever did whilst sober. “I didn’t. Look a little to Potter’s left, love, if you can stand to not watch him for a couple of seconds.”

He followed Pansy’s finger a bit more carefully this time, and finally saw what she meant. Two housemates of Potter’s – Draco had never really bothered to learn their names, he only knew that one of them occasionally set things on fire during Potions – were holding up a very familiar pink poster.

Draco grinned slowly. “Ah, so it worked.”

Pansy clapped. “Yes!”

“What worked?” Theodore asked, his eyes switching between Draco and Pansy as if watching a tennis match. “What are you talking about?”

“The party, you idiot,” Draco sighed.

“But what ‘worked’, then?”

“Merlin.” Pansy’s gleeful expression had slid of her face – something which tended to happen whenever someone was being stupid within her hearing range. (There were two things she hated in the world, someone bullying her friends, and stupid people. Draco pitied the people who were a combination of the two.) “You really _are_ stupid, aren’t you? Don’t you remember anything from last night? Where Draco and I had to break into the kitchen to convince the house elves to hang up those blasted posters everywhere? It nearly cost us our dessert privilege for a month!”

Blaise clutched his hand above his heart theatrically. “Oh, no,” he said in a monotone voice, “the horror.”

“Why must you always be sarcastic?” Pansy said, casting her eyes skyward in exasperation. “You wouldn’t want your last words to be sarcastic, would you?”

“Would you rather have my last words be dramatic?” Blaise asked, “oh no,” he then said again, but this time he added movements with his hands, and his voice sounded more whiny, “I’m _dying_. My beautiful face is going to leave this world forever, and I think everyone would die of complete and utter _heartbreak_ if such a thing happened!”

As if they rehearsed it, everyone’s head turned to Draco.

He rolled his eyes. “I so wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh, honey,” Pansy chuckled, “you _so_ would.”

“Zabini,” a voice suddenly called, and all Draco’s friends fell silent. “Your time table.”

“Thank you, Professor Slughorn,” Blaise obediently said, and took his timetable from the pudgy Professor’s hands.

“Parkinson, Nott,” his friends accepted their timetables gracefully. “Malfoy.” The professor didn’t even lift his eyes to look at Draco, and just shoved the paper inside his hands, quickly moving on so he wouldn’t be able to touch Draco’s hands. (As if Draco had some kind of infectious disease.)

The second Slughorn moved on, Pansy’s hand was on his leg, squeezing comfortingly. “Draco –“

He shook off her pity. (If only he could shake off the hurt. If even his teachers were afraid to look at or touch him, how was he going to get through a whole year of classes without renting a bed at the infirmary permanently, just in case the students weren’t as morally against violence like the teachers?)

He looked to the other side of the room again, fixing his eyes on Potter. (Whose hair looked even worse than it had minutes ago, he must’ve been rubbing away his fringe a lot.) “Operation W.T.E. –“ _wooing the enemy_ “- has to speed up,” Draco muttered, so only Pansy could hear him. “I don’t think we’ll survive this year if I don’t succeed.”

Her hand tightened even more, and she looked at him seriously. “You’re right, Draco. Please, kiss him before the week ends – for all our sakes.”

 

And so he tried.

Over the next few days Draco had flirted with Harry Potter in every way imaginable.

At first, he had tried _compliments._

 

_“Potter!”_

_The green-eyed wizard had quirked up from his book – for some inexplicable reason Harry Potter was trying to study on his second day back to Hogwarts, something he had never done properly in his previous years – and immediately pulled a face when he saw who was yelling at him. “Malfoy.”_

_Draco smiled. He only ever tried to smile like that to his friends and his parents whenever they needed reassuring that he was ‘perfectly fine, thank you’. He saw to his enormous satisfaction that Potter looked too confused to smile back at him. (After all, the golden boy probably never knew Draco was able to smile at all.) “Studying already?”_

_Potter huffed, and put down his book like it pained him to do so. “Unlike some people, I’d like to actually pass my N.E.W.T.’s.”_

_“Hmm.” Draco looked around to see if anyone was looking, bowed down to get closer to him – and ignored the strange vanilla scent that always seemed to be around the golden boy – and whispered; “You look very cute like that, all smart and proper. You should definitely do it more often where I can see you.”_

_Potter’s reaction was immediate. He gasped, like Draco had smacked him right in the chest, and he bounced back in his chair with his Transfiguration book falling to the floor with a thud. “Malfoy! What the actual –“_

_Draco smiled again, and turned away. “Have a lovely day, Potter!”_

 

Unfortunately, Potter hadn’t done anything else than avoid him after that scene.

(Even Weasley had more emotion on his face every time he saw Draco walking down the hallways, with Granger holding him back as if he wanted to jump Draco for daring to compliment his best friend. Merlin, Gryffindors were mental.)

After that, he’d tried the more subtle approach, with intimacy.

 

_Potter had just come out of the Prefect’s bathroom – probably stole the password from one of his Gryffindor friends, considering he wasn’t officially allowed to use it since his Quidditch Captain title had been invoked during his absence – with his hair tousled and wet and standing in every direction. (His hair_ had _to have magical qualities, Draco pondered, if it was still possible to look like that after just having a bath.) Potter’s robes clung to his body, like he hadn’t bother to dry himself off, and for a second Draco just watched him close off the door, enjoying the way he could see Potter’s muscles tense underneath the tight and wet clothing._

_(Just because he only needed Potter to help him didn’t mean he couldn’t look.) (Right?)_

_“Potter,” he finally called when he had enough, and saw to his great satisfaction that the other boy jumped up so high he almost hit his head on one of the lamps on the wall. “Still doing illegal stuff, I see?”_

_“Piss off, Malfoy,” Potter hissed back when he’d come back to his senses, and he glared his infamous Potter glare. (Normally, people would scatter and run when subject of said glare. Draco, however, thrived in it, and unconsciously straightened his back.)_

_“I don’t think I will.” Draco then said, and walked over to him until they were at a spitting distance. Immediately, Potter tensed. “Potter…” he continued, stepping forward again._

_They were now close enough to touch._

_And still, Potter didn’t move._

_Interesting._

_Draco moved even closer, enjoying the way he towered over the boy – by two inches, thank Merlin for his growth spurt – and the way Potter’s eyes roamed everywhere but at Draco’s face, like a frightened bunny looking anywhere but at its captor. “Potter…”_

_This time, Potter’s eyes snapped back to him, and some of his breath left him. His green eyes were stuck on Draco’s face, but not his eyes – oh, no. His lips._

_How very,_ very _interesting._

_Draco stepped even closer, and could now feel Potter’s minty breath on his neck. “Potter –“_

_“Malfoy.” Potter licked his lips – maybe even subconsciously – and his eyes kept shooting from Draco’s eyes to his mouth. “What – er.. what are you doing?”_

_Draco leaned forward, and whispered in his ear; “You’re in my way.”_

_The shudder that went through the golden boy was phenomenal, as if Draco had just done something entirely different than just whisper in his ear. Potter’s breath left him, his knees sagged – and for a second Draco thought that he had succeeded in his plans, because Potter was grabbing his arms so tightly it hurt – until he was roughly shoved aside._

 

So, obviously, that hadn’t given him the best result either. After that particular scene, Potter had ignored him on Wednesday _and_ Thursday, even skipping classes they shared just to avoid him.

That fact had given Pansy a laughing fit that wouldn’t die down for almost an hour. She claimed he was winning at this, while Blaise just announced he was losing.

(Draco was sure it was a bit of both.)

Realizing – and slightly panicking – that he only had one day of lessons left before the party, he knew he had to do something drastic to ensure that _something_ happened that night. So, gathering every bit of Slytherin bravery he had locked up somewhere, he stepped up to Granger in the library during one of her free hours.

Both Potter and Weasley were somewhere else – probably given up the pretence of being good students and thus playing Exploding Snap in their common room – and Draco didn’t wait for his doubt and self-consciousness to settle in before he dropped in the seat next to her.

At first she didn’t notice him.

She was glaring at the book as if she were trying to set it on fire – if she wasn’t such a lover of books, Draco would’ve feared for its future – and muttering incantations under her breath.

Then, suddenly realizing she wasn’t alone anymore, her head snapped up, and her eyes widened comically. “Malfoy.”

He smirked, and unable to help himself, he said, “In the flesh.”

Before he could say anything else, her wand was out and pointed straight at his neck, as if she were about to hex him to oblivion. Her hair was everywhere – though, in comparison to Potter’s, it looked untidy and horrible – and her glare almost burned a hole in Draco’s face. “What in the name of _Merlin_ ’s pants are you doing here, Malfoy?” She breathed, almost too angry to properly talk out loud. “Give me one good reason why I should _not_ hex you right now.”

He lazily lifted an eyebrow, as if she didn’t scare him shitless. (She did.) “I don’t have a wand.”

She huffed. “Like you can’t do wandless magic. I’ve seen you in class, Malfoy.”

This surprised him – he had no idea she’d been watching him. (He only ever noticed Potter watching him.) “Fine. I’m just here for…” he looked around, cleared his throat, and managed, “to apologize.”

Granger’s eyes widened, and she fell down on her chair in surprise. “What?”

Draco cleared his throat again – he abhorred apologies, even more actually _giving_ them – but he needed to do it to get Granger to like him. A bit.

In any way, he suspected that if she didn’t _hate_ him, Potter would be more open to fall for his flirting. (Draco at least knew Potter well enough to know the golden boy would never do something that would hurt his friends, and to go out with someone they hated would certainly not be okay by that rule.)

“I’m sorry,” he finally croaked, and cringed. “I’m not asking for forgiveness, because you are… I don’t expect you to. I’ve been an arse, frankly,” this brought a small laugh out of her, “and an all-round prick who didn’t know what he was saying. Well, I kind of _did,_ but – you know what I mean. Potter just…” He quickly shut up, afraid he’d said too much. (He almost wanted to say that Potter just riled him up, always put him over the edge like no one could, making him say and do things he afterwards regretted. Potter was like a veela, drawing people closer only to lash out at him. Luckily, he was able to stop himself in time in case Granger would think he was mental. Pansy had certainly done that after he’d confessed this particular thing to her.)

Granger looked him up and down, as if she was trying to decipher whether he’d been telling the truth or not.

He actually _was_ telling the truth, which surprised him.

He’d thought he had to lie to convince her, but after he said all that, he realized he meant it. He had, apparently, never meant to intentionally hurt her.

Well. Imagine that.

“Alright,” she finally said, her eyebrows still knotted in a frown. “I can’t forgive you yet, but thank you for your apology. It was… unexpected.”

Draco nodded. He’d expected this response. “Well, er… I shall leave you to your studies, then.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

Awkwardly he pulled himself up, waved – and ignored the way Granger’s eyebrows shot up in her hair – and turned away. Just when he thought she’d picked up her book to study he turned again, and said quickly; “Is Potter gay?”

Immediately her face heated up, like she was choking, and she spluttered out an incoherent response. “I – he – uh-“

Draco couldn’t help but smile broadly, and he curtsied at her. “Thanks ever so much, Granger. Until tonight, then. _Ciao_!”

And with that he strutted away, his steps ever so lighter. He might not be at the point where he wanted to be – with Harry Potter as his boyfriend – but after only five days back, he supposed he ought to be congratulated on his process. Potter was avoiding him, too embarrassed for his own reactions to Draco’s flirting, and he was _gay,_ which made his (and Pansy’s) plan for tonight’s party _much_ more fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, review if you like it!
> 
> (Party-time is due next chapter! This fic will - probably - have 4 chapters, if you guys think that's enough, if I am able to stop myself from writing about these two love-birds.)


	3. Let's Get Drunk and Be Idiots party

Chapter 3

Welcome to our 8th Year at Hogwarts – Let’s get drunk and be Idiots Party

 

**Draco**

Draco was slowly losing it.

He had tried his absolute best to woo Potter in his little scheme to get the Golden Boy to fall in love with him – because _honestly,_ why was it taking him so long, didn’t he know what a marvellous catch Draco was? – and he did not want to go through desperate measures.

(Desperate measures meant going through with his Plan D. Plan A, B, and C hadn’t given him the result he wanted, but no matter how many times Pansy hit him with his silk pillow, he wouldn’t go through with it. Absolutely not. At least, not with his – though debatable – dignity intact.)

Reality, however, wasn’t working with him.

The eleventh hour was ticking nearer.

It was Friday, and he was already dressed up for the party.

The door was standing open to welcome the students from other houses. Music was blasting through magically-floating boxes (thanks to Daphne Greengrass, she always had a special touch with charms), and there was no going back now.

Blaise was sitting on his usual couch, looking supposedly gloomy – like he hadn’t just spent an hour of yelling at a first year about the ‘proper’ music choice for tonight, like he hadn’t gotten angry earlier because Draco had thrown a fit (what? His hair had gotten messed up, which is a totally good reason to throw a fit), like he hadn’t been obsessed with how the booze had to be placed on the tables. Pansy was lying next to him, her feet on his lap, and she was playing absently with her dress. (It was a pretty dress, Draco had to admit. It was an emerald green dress with black lace at the top, cutting just beneath her behind to make it classy, yet sexy. Her words, not his. If he weren’t so desperately gay, he would’ve _drooled_ at the sight of her.)

“Stop staring, Draco.” She said, wiggling her toes. (Her high heels were at her side, the devilish things giving her feet a breathing pause before the party would officially start.) “You’re almost making me doubt your sexuality.”

Blaise snorted. “Like it’s ever been a doubt, honey.”

“Hey,” Draco called, feeling the need to defend himself, even knowing that he couldn’t. “We tried to date, for the record,” he pointed at Pansy, and then himself. “In fourth year.”

Pansy grinned. “And how well did that work out for us?”

He grimaced. She might have a good point. It had ended, oh-so gracefully, in them making out after the Yule Ball. It had been wet, weird, and awkward, and with way too much boob – it took approximately three seconds before Pansy had leaned away because she was laughing too hard, so hard she’d slammed him in his stomach when she’d doubled over. Two years later she admitted it had reminded her of trying to kiss a sibling – gross, unethical, and _wrong._

He, however, just knew from the second their lips touched that it was like kissing the squid in the lake – not that he had any experience – it was simply a moment he never, ever wanted to repeat in his life.

“Fine,” he finally grumbled, and looked back at the doors again. Still no sign of any other students. He then turned to younger Slytherins, hissed, “Dance!” and strutted back to where his best friends were sitting.

He did not feel good about the younger years listening to his snobbish comments.

He did not.

(Fine, maybe a little bit.)

“Draco,” Pansy began as soon as he sat down on the edge of the couch, “have you thought about plan D yet?”

“Of course I have,” he said, “and after sincere consideration I thought that I’d rather keep the tiny bit of dignity I have left and _not_ go through with it. Can’t we just do our original plan, and let me wear Blaise’s leather pants?”

Blaise snorted so loudly Draco was worried for his internal organs. “Two things. One, you don’t fit into them. You’re as thin as a wand.”

Draco slowly raised an eyebrow. “Did you just insult me?”

“Oh, darling,” Pansy patted his leg, “some people dig skinny, you know.”

He growled at her. “I’m not skinny, I’m very masculine and broad and muscled.”

Blaise and Pansy just stared at him for a second, before making a weird sound at the same time. Unsure whether they’d just laughed or snorted at him – or a combination of the two – he settled for crossing his arms and looking very upset.

He even pouted.

Pansy didn’t seem to be impressed, and neither did Blaise.

(Which wasn’t a first, but it still hurt Draco’s feelings.)

“Anyway,” continued Blaise after a while, unable to keep a straight face, “you wouldn’t fit. Believe me. Second, I don’t think Harry Potter would be immediately head-over-heels for you just because you’re wearing leather pants. You need something more drastic.”

“Like my plan,” Pansy chirped up, looking much too pleased with herself.

Draco groaned theatrically, and buried his face in his hands. “No,” he said, his voice slightly muffled. “I won’t do it. The biggest thing we’d get out of it is Potter thinking I’ve gone mental and the Weasel having a slight mental breakdown.”

Pansy laid her hand on his shoulder, and she squeezed gently. “In my opinion, Potter already _knows_ you are mental,”

Draco groaned again. “Not helping.”

“And,” she continued, “would the latter really be such a big deal? It’s just the Weasel, after all.”

“She has a point, you know,” Blaise chirped up.

And that was the problem, Draco thought miserably.

Girls most of the time were all-knowing, stubborn creatures that knew more than you did, and weren’t afraid of grabbing you by the ears and pulling you through a whole lot of misery, pain and undignified moments to get you where you didn’t _want_ to be but, according to her, _needed_ to be.

And no matter how much he was fighting against the plan, how much he’d ‘put his foot down’, throw his hands up in the air or throw a childish tantrum, he knew he would end up doing it anyway.

Because he loved Pansy. He loved her cleverness, he loved her way of always knowing what everyone in Hogwarts was doing, he loved her sarcastic comments she muttered under her breath during class. He would’ve married that girl if he weren’t gay.

And most importantly – if she, the most clever Slytherin he had ever had the good fortune to meet, thought that being a total moron was going to get him Potter, he was going to follow her to hell if it worked.

 

**Harry**

Draco Malfoy was inexplicable.

(One of the new words he’d learned from Hermione’s latest birthday gift – a literary calendar which taught him a new English word every day. Yesterday had been _aspiration._ Today it’d been _inexplicable._

When Harry had told Ron he thought it explained Malfoy perfectly, Ron had choked on his spit and promptly bolted from the room, still persisting in his ‘if I run away every time Harry talks about Malfoy he’ll probably stop doing it’. So far, it hadn’t worked.)

Draco Malfoy was inevitable, too.

(He already knew that word. Yes, Hermione. Not joking.)

But most of all, Draco Malfoy was _weird._

Instead of trying to bury the hatchet, like trying to be civil, trying _not_ to hex Harry, or maybe even ignoring him – basically anything Harry had expected Draco Malfoy to do – he’d straight-up thrown all logic away and attempted to flirt his way into Harry’s good graces.

(Yes, he’d finally figured out that that was what Malfoy was doing. It had only taken him five days, some books from Hermione and a _lot_ of frustrated groaning from both Ron and Ginny to help him get there.)

And now he finally knew just _what_ Malfoy was up to…

Well, that was it, really.

He had focused so much on trying to figure out his motives – like Sixth Year all over again – that he had no clue what to do now that he finally knew them.

Should he call Malfoy on it? Ask him to stop? File a harassment complaint to Malfoy’s head of house – professor Slughorn?

Harry scowled, and hugged his chest. No. He couldn’t. It wasn’t as if the… the flirting, the close contact, the _looks_ , were annoying. Gross. (They weren’t gross. Not even a little bit.) He wouldn’t file a harassment complaint just as much as he wouldn’t ever go to the Headmistress to ask her for advice.

Oh, god.

He made a face.

Professor McGonagall would probably send him straight to St. Mungo’s if she knew how off-put he felt because Draco Malfoy was _flirting_ with him.

(Or she’d give him biscuits. She was a surprising woman, after all.)

“Hey, mate,” a voice suddenly called, and Harry jumped up from the couch in the common room. Ron was staring at him, his eyebrows knitted together. He was wearing a bright-orange robe, the only dress-robe he owned, and for some reason it suited him. It wasn’t too small like usual – probably Hermione’s charmwork – and even the material looked classier than normal. “What’s that weird look for? Do I smell weird? I even showered this morning.”

“What?” Harry shook his head. “No, I’m just thinking.”

Ron groaned, his face immediately weary. “Not about Malfoy again, right?”

Harry’s face grew hot. “No.”

“You’re blushing, mate.”

“I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“That’s just the fire,” Harry defended, pointing at the fire place. “I don’t blush.”

“Hi, Harry,” a girl’s voice suddenly sounded, and both Ron and Harry jumped up in surprise. “Are you guys ready to go down to the dungeons yet?” Hermione grinned at them, her hair pulled back in a loose braid and her flowery orange dress almost glowing in the dark. “Ginny has already gone and taken Neville – and Seamus was…. Harry, why is your face all red?”

“The fire,” Harry mumbled, at the same time that Ron said, “Malfoy.”

Hermione immediately frowned, then sighed, and finally settled for an amused smile. “C’mon then, lover boy, it seems that your boyfriend is waiting for us.”

“I – I’m not...” Harry sighed, weakly allowing Hermione to grab his arm and drag him along to their House’s entrance. “He’s not –“

“I’d give it up, mate,” Ron said over his shoulder, holding Hermione’s free hand.

Harry grimaced. He might have a point.

 

**Draco**

The moment Potter stepped through the Slytherin entrance, Draco stopped moving.

Not because his heart had just skipped a beat at the sight of him – absolutely _not,_ hearts beat irregularly all the time, it was merely a coincidence – but because he’d come, he’d dressed up, he’d done his hair, and he was _blushing_ from head to toe, and Draco hadn’t even started plan D yet.

Pansy immediately appeared at his side on the dancefloor, and she grabbed his arm in a painfully tight grip. “He’s here!” she whispered.

“I can see that, I’m not blind,” he snapped back, not taking his eyes of Potter for a second. (Granger was holding Potter’s arm as if he might bolt as soon as she let go, why was that? Didn’t he want to be here? Oh, merlin, was he still nervous to be near Draco? Draco nearly giggled at the thought.)

“Go on, then,” Pansy pushed him, a bit harder than she intended, and he stumbled over his own feet ungracefully. “Your turn to welcome the guests.”

It was actually Nott’s, but that didn’t matter.

Within seconds Draco had arrived at the entrance, his smirk in place, none of his inner turmoil visible in his expression. (At least, he hoped so.) “Evening, Gryffindors.”

Granger was the first to speak up. She grinned at him, and said, “Hi, Draco.”

Weasley’s head immediately snapped to his girlfriend, his expression so comically shocked that Draco would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so nervous. “ _Draco?”_ he asked, his voice too high for a boy his age. “Since when do you call him Draco?”

Granger winked at Draco before turning to her boyfriend. “Since this afternoon,” she offered as an explanation. “Since he grew some balls and apologised to me.”

Potter stumbled. “What?” he said, eyes flickering between Granger and Draco as if following a fast Quidditch match. “ _What,_ ” he repeated for good measure, “he what –“

“I apologised,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow. “Surely even you know what that means, Potter?”

“Of course I do.” Potter crossed his arms. “I’ve just never seen you actually do it, have I?”

“Well, I don’t exactly make a habit of it.” He turned to Granger again, and let his grin grow. “Most students are sitting near the fireplace, butterbeer and fire-whiskey is located on the other side of the dungeons and the music is currently on demand. If you have good taste, take it up with Daphne.”

“Right.” Granger grabbed Weasley’s hand again, and steered him in the direction of the drinks. “Thanks.”

Potter remained, shuffling on his feet and an air of awkward tension around him. (If Draco knew any better, it seemed as if the boy was nervous.)

“Can I ask you something?” Draco finally asked when the other boy had just kept on staring at his shoes.

Potter’s head snapped up, obviously relieved to be gone of the silence. “Yes!” He answered almost forcefully, “What d’you want to ask?”

“How it feels.”

“How what feels?”

Draco leaned in closer, his heart beating so hard he was afraid Potter would be able to hear it, and he whispered, “how it feels to be the prettiest guy in the room.”

And without waiting for a response, without staying to see the glorious, magnificent blush return to Potter’s skin – he turned on his heels and walked back to the dancefloor with as much dignity as he could gather.

 

**Harry**

He shouldn’t be surprised by Malfoy’s weirdness anymore.

But, standing at the entrance of the Slytherin dungeons, staring at the retreating figure of his ex-nemesis’ back, he felt himself completely stumped for a moment.

Nobody, in his entire life, had ever been so successful in completely surprising Harry _every single time_ he saw them.

He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, to be honest.

He shook his head, trying to keep it clear – wasn’t really working, especially now seeing Malfoy _dancing_ like a proper professional (of bloody course Malfoy was good at dancing, it wasn’t bloody fair) in his too-tight trousers and white blouse almost shining in the dark.

(Not that Harry was checking him out. Absolutely not.)

He took a deep breath, gathered his wits, and then followed Malfoy onto the dancefloor, thinking it probably couldn’t get any weirder than this.

Two hours, four butterbeers and a lot of sweat later – and Harry knew it bloody well _could._

Malfoy had been muttering stuff in his ears all evening, often without much more of a warning than a slight brush of his fingers against Harry’s arm.

He’d whispered, _‘I might not go down in history of magic, but I’ll go down on you,”_ in Harry’s ear right when Harry had been in a semi-serious conversation with Hermione about the liberation of House-Elves. He’d responded by choking on his butterbeer and accidentally spilling the rest of it on Hermione’s lap.

Malfoy had muttered, “ _I know you’re a Gryffindor but you can Slytherin my bed tonight,”_ to Harry during a heated argument about the Holyhead Harpies between him and Ginny – and he’d made a sound so girlish and high that Ginny hadn’t stopped laughing for nearly ten minutes. (Malfoy, meanwhile, had walked away with a smirk so broad it should’ve cut his pointy face in two.)

And on, and on, and on it had went.

They had gotten worse as time progressed, too.

So when at eleven Malfoy had leaned over Harry’s shoulder (why was Malfoy taller again? It wasn’t fair) and whispered, “ _Are you a wizard? Because every time I look at you everyone else seems to disapparate,”_ Harry’d had enough, he snapped, turned on the spot and locked his arms around Malfoy’s waist without skipping a beat.

“Enough,” he growled under his breath, his arms tightening ever more so around Malfoy’s lean body. (Malfoy felt sharp and lean, harsh and pointy, like his entire personality. It was so different, so non-girlish that Harry felt the need to weep. Why was Malfoy so attractive? Or, better yet, why was Harry so, so gay?) “Enough with the flirting, with the invading my personal space, and with the god-awful pick-up lines. What do you _want_ from me?”

Malfoy looked far too comfortable in Harry’s embrace, as if it was something they did nearly every single day. “What does it look like?”

“I don’t bloody know, do I?” Harry asked, trying to ignore the fact that most people around them had stopped dancing, had turned around to stare at them. He didn’t lessen his grip. “You’ve never been the most logical person – not even in First Year – but this pretty much tops it. Do you want to humiliate me? Make people laugh about ‘ _Harry Potter the Pouf’_ –“

“Merlin, no!” Malfoy’s eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Potter, let go of me, and I’ll explain –”

“Don’t bother.” He finally let go of Malfoy – ignoring how disappointed he felt about doing so – and stomped away from the dancefloor. He’d had enough of dancing, enough of all the confusion, and above all enough from _Malfoy_ , the bloody prettiest boy in the room whispering idiotic, moronic and untrue things in his ear. “Come,” he growled to Hermione and Ron, and they immediately followed him.

 

**Draco**

Draco had never been one to cry easily in public.

He was one to keep it confined in a so-called safety room – either a bathroom or his own clothing closet – and he’d rather kill someone who overheard him than bear the consequences of his humiliation.

Right now, however, staring at the retreating back of Harry Potter, he felt the tears burning in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

Because it had been for nothing.

All his dignity had been pulled down the drain – everyone just kept on staring and staring – and it hadn’t even _worked_. All he had achieved was to make Potter think he had a more sinister motive, which was the exact opposite of what he’d wanted to do.

It had cost him all his effort, all his talent for scheming – which, admittedly, were Slytherin-worthy – and it’d had no result, at all.

He was back where he started, back at –

“Draco,” Pansy’s voice came suddenly from behind, and she grabbed his arm. To steady him, or keep him from falling apart right in front of the entire school, he wasn’t sure. “Honey,” she said, so soft as if he might run away if she spoke louder, “go after him.”

“I – what?” Draco’s eyes never left the closed doors through which Potter had just left with his friends. _His effort had had no results._

“You heard me.”

He shook his head frantically, sure that the people around him must believe him to be completely mental at this point. Did he care?

_Potter would never date him._  

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you will listen to me!”

The grip on his arm suddenly tightened, and this time, he was forced to look in Pansy’s direction.

And she was absolutely furious, her eyes almost glowing in the fluorescent disco-lights above them, a red tinge on her cheeks. “You will gather as much as strength you have left in that thin thing of a body, and you _will go after him,_ and you will do so _right now.”_

“Pansy –“ he protested, but was cut off by an angry snarl at his right side. He looked around, and found himself with another furious girl – this time, it was the girl Weasley. (He refused to call her by her name, even in his head.)

“Pansy’s right.” She chirped, almost sounding like a cat, and she crossed her arms. “Harry’s basically been obsessed with you since First Year. If you don’t go after him right now, I’ll hex your balls so black and blue you’ll wish you’d never been born a boy.”

He could only blink.

First Year?

_Obsessed?_

“You heard her, Draco,” Pansy said, this time a lot more cheerful. “Go catch your man.”

“I… obsessed?” he repeated, feeling as though someone had both stopped his heart and revived it with electricity. “He’s –”

“Malfoy,” Weasley said, rolling her eyes, “I know we’ve never gotten along. You’ve been a horrible person, you’ve made a full-time job of hating my family, and you have always acted like a pretentious prick.”

This brought Draco back to his senses. (At least, for a bit.) “Hey,” he called, fully knowing she was right. “I was young, and my father –”

“Not really an excuse, but that wasn’t my point.”

“Then what was it?” Pansy asked, letting go of Draco’s arm now to cross her arms, too. “You’re insulting my best friend here, so you better make it a good point.”

Weasley rolled her eyes. “My point is, Malfoy, that despite all that horridness – he has _always been obsessed with you._ You are the one he stalks late at night, _you_ are the one he talks about so much it gets on my nerves – frankly, everyone’s nerves.”

“I…” Draco cleared his throat, and for some inexplicable reason his vision turned blurry again. “What are you saying?’

“That, Draco, my love,” Pansy said, “you have a pretty good chance of winning his heart, if you go after him right now.”

“Off you pop, Slytherin boy.”

“I –”

“Go!” Both the girls said in unison, and if Draco’s ears didn’t betray him, so did some others standing by.

“I… okay.” He nodded, and nodded again, his head feeling slightly light-headed. That was the shock of this all and the evening, he thought, _not_ the fact that Potter had been as obsessed with him as he’d been with Potter. _It wasn’t._ “Okay.”

Pansy gave him a small nudge, and he started walking.

His feet slowly set into motion, but they sped up with each step, as if someone had flipped a switch – and suddenly he was running, his feet flying beneath him, and he was out of the doors, through the dungeons, on the stairs, up and up and up the stairs, his heartbeat synchronising with his pace, his breaths ringing in his ears with _obsessed, obsessed, obsessed,_ repeating over and over again in his head –

And there he was.

“Potter!” He screamed, unable to contain himself.

And then, just when Draco reached the top of the stairs, when he was sure he was going to pass out from the stabbing pain in his thighs from the exercise – Potter turned on his heels.


End file.
